Jesus of the fog of coats

Who is this Christ that through the fog
of coats beholds me of all men and says
will I give a dime to help buy a hot dog?

Although his voice asks me as a man
reduced to a dog begging scraps,
when his soul brushes mine he is god,

whose eyes search for only a friend
who will give him a kindness not from guilt
or high-minded notions of righteousness,

whose dry callused hands question why
my poverty is greater than his
and my need so much more important,

whose feet ask me where is your faith
passing without the simplest act of healing
and twelve words even a traitor could utter.